


Apothecary's Rose

by Troutwaxer



Category: Honor Harrington - Fandom, Honor Harrington Series - David Weber, WEBER David - Works
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 20:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18373466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troutwaxer/pseuds/Troutwaxer
Summary: A romance set on Grayson during the very early years of their alliance with Manticore. Sexy, but not pornographic. The science-fictional elements are mostly medical and computer-based. No major characters are involved.





	Apothecary's Rose

When she first met Gary, Caraway was sitting in the atrium of the Grayson NavInt Building, unconsciously twisting one of her short dreadlocks around a painfully red finger. She was reading a letter from the man who'd just left her and trying very hard not to cry. Just in case she lost control, she'd wheeled herself a few feet downwind of the running sprinkler system in the forlorn hope that anyone who saw the purely hypothetical tears running down her brown face would assume that she'd accidently gotten watered along with the roses. She became aware, by degrees, of the man standing in front of her, and looked up briefly to see a local in the uniform of the Grayson Space Navy gazing down at her.

"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice was low and gentle, almost melodious.

She spent just enough time looking at him to make sure he didn't outrank her. "Go away."

"My apologies for intruding. I thought perhaps you were having some trouble with your wheelchair."

"My fiance-" her voice caught in her throat, "my ex-fiance, as of my receiving this little note, is having trouble with my wheelchair. However, beyond reassuring you that my health is good, and that my wheelchair is in excellent working order, I'm not interested in having a conversation with what I judge to be a stalwart example of overly-protective Grayson manhood right now." She caught herself before uttering the phrase "so please fuck off," and let the unsaid words settle into her dark eyes instead.

Surprisingly, the Grayson man took the hint. "I am, of course, at your service." He gave her a half nod and began to walk away.

"Hey!" she shouted.

He - oh that suddenly awful pronoun - turned around. "Yes?"

She balled up the "Dear Joan" letter and threw it at him. "Please put that in the first trash receptacle you pass."

He caught the ball of paper and gave it a little underhand toss back in her direction. "Giving this to me would be inadvisable." She let the balled up wad of ex-fiance crap bounce off her unfeeling right knee. It landed in the water and started to uncrumple. The Grayson officer went on. "The temptation to look up the author of this vile note and exchange words with him that all three of us might later regret would be overwhelming. Besides, you might wish to consult it while composing a suitable reply." He nodded again, turned on one heel, and walked off. He was half right, she finally decided. The words of the letter had already burned themselves into her brain, but perhaps she would send it back to Michael along with the ring and the mementos of the eighteen months they had spent together. She reached for the tractor pistol she used to pick small items up off the floor and discovered that the holster that hung from the right arm of her chair was empty. In her excitement over receiving what she'd assumed was a love note, she'd gone off to lunch without her usual gear.

It was in that moment of frustrated need for the non-macho (and thus tolerable) Grayson officer to come back and help her get the "Dear Joan" note off the ground that the seeds of wanting him near were, in the fashion of an unwanted and extremely male weed, planted in her psyche - and it was at this miserable moment that she started to fall in love, though it would be nearly a year before she admitted it.

*         *         *

She got through the rest of the day by closing her office door and temporizing as much as possible when the com buzzed. There was a meeting with two of her fellow analysts in the late afternoon, and she got through it successfully only because she'd already finished the work before her lunch break.

That night, she drank the last of the wine she'd brought down from the Manticoran side of the orbital yard and listened to sad Grayson songs on the radio. Tales of faithless lovers and broken hearts poured into her ears, but the barriers she'd put between her heart and her eyes so she could get through the day wouldn't come down. Finally Caraway rolled herself over to the bed and got under the covers. She reached up to the shelf next to her bed, pulled down the oversized stuffed treecat which was her souvenir of a visit to Sphinx, and cuddled the plush beastie to her breast, wanting at least the illusion of another creature holding her, but then she remembered that Mr. Grumpy had been a gift from Michael, so she threw the toy across her room and settled for the pillow, which at least held no memories of love, however false and fragile. She fell asleep with the light on, the words of Michael's letter running through her head again and again like a nightmarish lullaby.

The next day was a little better, and despite feeling stiff and sore from a most unrelaxing sleep the night before, she actually managed to get some work done. Just before noon she was called into Captain Stevens' office, and was formally introduced to the Grayson she had met the day before. "This," Captain Stevens declaimed, "is Commander Gerald Harrison, though he tells me he prefers to be called Gary. Gary, let me introduce the head of our tactical analysis section, Commander Tolerance Caraway Lebowitz."

"A pleasure ma'am."

Despite having been recently assigned to this station, Caraway had discovered that Captain Stevens enjoyed watching her reaction to people who called her by her first name, and though she was usually willing to humor her superior, she discovered that despite her current hostility to the entire male species, she had no desire to give the man who'd behaved so intelligently the previous day a hard time. "Call me Caraway," she said glumly, and held out her hand.

He gave her a businesslike handshake. "How in the world did you end up with a name like that?" It was the usual question, and she gave the stock answer.

"Caraway was easy. My parents ran an herb farm and my father thought the caraway plant produced a quite pretty flower. As for Tolerance, it's been the fashion on Manticore for some time," Caraway told him, "particularly among members of my parent's generation, to name daughters after some virtue they find particularly appalling."

Gary obviously didn't know what to make of the phrasing. "Don't you mean appealing?"

"If I'd been given a name like Faith or Hope I might use the word appealing. My parents find tolerance to be the most beautiful of all the virtues, but the name has no redeeming aesthetic properties and doesn't lend itself to a pleasant nickname."

"I see your point." Even if Caraway had felt like having a real conversation, explaining why she'd changed her last name immediately upon attaining her majority didn't seem like a good talking point with a new acquaintance and she couldn't think of anything else to say, so the silence stretched on.

After a moment, Captain Stevens cleared his throat. "Gary is taking over the section that specializes in tracking the careers of Havenite officers, and I expect that as he generates some good intelligence on how and who the People's Revolutionary Committee promotes and reassigns in it's ongoing purge of "unreliables" that the two of you will put your heads together on what we can expect from the various ship, fleet, and station commanders. Commander Harrison will be in the office next to yours, so if you'll be so kind as to help him get oriented..."

"Of course, sir." Caraway did her best to sound brisk and military, but it didn't come out that way.

Stevens opened his desk and handed Caraway a crumpled, creme colored, water-damaged piece of paper. "Miss Lebowitz, are you feeling a little gloomy today?"

"Yes Captain." Of all the people to pick up the damn letter after she'd been unable to get it off the ground...

"Get drunk this weekend. We can't have you moping around like this."

"Drunk sir?" Caraway hadn't been aware that Graysons got drunk.

"It's traditional after a kiss off note. Consider it an order."

"Yessir," said Caraway with a sort of grim malice, "should I hire a hooker too?"

Captain Stevens chuckled. "That's more like the Caraway we're used to around here. If you can find a hooker on Grayson, you're welcome to her - or him - or whatever. Just don't be dragging your ass like this when you come in Monday."

"No sir. No ass dragging."

"Lovely, I'll leave you two to get with it. And Caraway?"

"Yes sir?"

"I understand that Commander Harrison considers himself to be a very good racketball player. I want you to promise me that you won't be making any large bets on the outcome of his first game with you."

"Of course, sir."

A comment about their first racketball game was usually the cue for a bit of banter, but Caraway couldn't think of anything funny to say. The Captain waited a couple beats for her joke, then gave up. "Dismissed."

"Sir."

"What was the business about not making any large bets?" Gary asked as they walked down the hallway together.

"The day after I was first assigned, Captain Stevens found me whacking a ball around the racketball court in the basement. He made a disparaging remark about crippled women trying to act like men. I bet him a hundred austins that he couldn't take me two out of three."

"And?"

"He was foolish enough to offer me odds."

They were still in earshot of the boss's office, so Gary did his best to keep from laughing. "How do you get around the court?" he asked.

"I use a grav-chair for racketball. There is a trick to beating me, but he didn't figure it out until midway through the third game, and I was much too far ahead by then."

"I'll bet you find that Grayson men are easily sucked into that kind of bet."

"You have no idea. I could wheel myself from one watering hole to another and make a fortune from bar bets, but I can't find any bars. The previous inhabitant of your office was sure I couldn't get down the stairs on my own and convinced most of the other officers here to make a bet to that effect. I'd been taking the elevator up until then, but I can do stairs when I have to..." The thought of a dozen vile males reaching for their wallets lifted her spirits a little. "I cleaned up."

"How in the world do you manage stairs?"

Caraway didn't answer, she just gave Gary what she'd titled her "damn Grayson male" look, put on her gloves, and gave the wheels a hard push. If he paid any attention at all, he'd know that any competent wheelchair athlete could manage a straight set of stairs, so he had to be thinking of her as some kind of helpless female. On the other hand, stairwells, with their dangerous hairpin turns and a wall just opposite the bottom of the stairs were another matter. The trick was to recline the chair just enough to keep her center of gravity low, brake her inside wheel at the exact second she hit the landing, and push off the far wall. This would take Caraway around the corner, hopefully without dumping her on her ass, and she'd be able to cruise down the next set of stairs and into her office, where she'd hopefully manage to stop before hitting the wall. Despite the risk of a nasty spill, she took this route down from the boss's office at least once a week.

The occasional racquetball victory just didn't do enough to convince the most abominably male of her Grayson colleagues that treating her like a little girl or, worse yet, a "Mantie slut" was a very poor idea indeed, and after yesterday's letter from Michael the idea of showing the bastards a thing or two had an enormous and angry appeal. "Commander Lebowitz on the stairs," she called, "take cover or take the consequences." Ensign Garret, who knew the drill though painful financial experience, thrust himself to one side as she rolled onto the first flight and bumped down the stairs. She almost came unbalanced on the landing, had to lean left harder than she would have liked, and rolled onto the second flight of stairs on only two wheels. "Coming through!"

There was a panicky moment as one of the doorguards pulled a green and white clad Grayson woman out of her way, then Caraway was in her office and fully occupied with maneuverings around her desk and stopping before she hit the wall. "Sweet Tester," she heard behind her, "are you all right?" There was a clatter of footsteps out in the hallway. Caraway put the wheelchair back into full sitting position and turned around. A palely beautiful, dark haired, dark eyed woman with what appeared, under the thick garments worn by a proper Grayson female, to be a marvellous figure, was standing in her doorway. She was tall for a Grayson, and her features, particularly her neck and cheekbones, were simply exquisite.

"I'm fine," Caraway grinned. The other woman's face was so beautiful, her eyes so clear of pretence, that despite her broken heart, she couldn't help but smile. "Stairs are no problem."

"You must the Manticoran officer Gary told me about last night," said the Grayson woman, "I gather you're no longer distraught?"

"If you're referring to the "Dear Joan" letter he found me reading yesterday at lunch, I'm still quite angry, and when I get over that I'll probably have a go at feeling bereft and broken for the next couple months." And since you look a little too much like Tina, let's change the subject before I decide against all reason that we're good enough friends for me to cry on your shoulder or something. "Are you a relative of Ga- Commander Harrison?"

"He's my husband." The woman's face broke like sudden moonlight into a slightly crooked smile. "I'm Clarice Harrison." Caraway extended a hand.

"Tolerance Caraway Lebowitz. I go by Caraway. It's a -" nothing was really a pleasure today, was it? "It's good to meet you."

"Likewise." Clarice took her hand and shook it, but she didn't let go. Instead she turned her wrist so she was holding Caraway's hand as if to give it a chivalric kiss, and looked thoughtfully at the glove. "For the wheelchair?" Her voice was matter of fact. There was no pity, just simple curiosity.

"Exactly." It was exactly the response she liked from people. No stupidly sympathetic comments and no assumptions.

The Grayson beauty nodded and let go of Caraway's hand. "How did you-"

"Clarice!" Gary's voice came from behind from his wife, "Is the Commander all right?"

" _Caraway_ is just fine."

"I see." Gary stepped around his wife's huge skirts, folded his arms and glared down at his new acquaintance. "But can you get back up the stairs?"

"That would be a little undignified," Clarice said, "since I can't use my legs at all. I'd have to get off the wheelchair, sit on my behind and use my hands to lift myself one step at a time."

"But you're a betting woman with a planet full of barbaric Grayson males to fleece. Let me get established here," said Gary, smiling evilly at her, "and I'll suggest it - in return for a piece of the action."

Despite her crushed heart, Caraway returned the evil look with pleased interest. "I bet they'll give me odds."

Clarice looked back and forth from Caraway to her husband, then raised her eyes to the heavens. "How does he do it ?"

"What do you mean?" Caraway asked.

"He's been working here less than a day, and he's already found someone with whom to be dreadful."

"Hey," said Caraway, "I represent that remark."

Clarice laughed. "You certainly do. Will you come over for dinner soon? If you're going to be my husband's partner in crime I suppose we'd better get acquainted."

Gary shook his head. "I'm more concerned that she eat a big lunch. Captain Stevens found the "Dear John" letter she dropped in the atrium and he's decreed that she take the usual cure."

"I'm supposed to get plastered." Caraway said grimly. "I'm not sure it will help. I don't even know where to get a drink on Grayson. If I took a shuttle up to the repair base I could go to Mantie country and get some wine, but that sounds like too much work for too little alcohol." The Graysons allowed an off-worlder to bring exactly one bottle of wine - and nothing stronger - through customs.

"Caraway, there's no place on Grayson where a woman can safely go by herself to buy real liquor," said Clarice, "and a woman who's just been thrown out like yesterday's garbage shouldn't be drinking alone." Clarice gave her husband a questioning look. He raised one eyebrow and produced a miniscule shrug. "Do you have any good friends here on Grayson?"

"I haven't really met anyone I can talk to." Some of the guys here are nice, but I can't imagine sitting down with one of them for some girl talk."

"It's settled then. We're new in town too, and we have some things to deal with this afternoon, but Gary will escort me to your place tonight. I'll bring something to eat and you can tell me all about it."

"Awww..." Caraway fought back tears, "you don't have to do that."

"Someone has to," Gary said, "And Clarice is never quite happy without someone to mother-hen. Seven?"

"That would be fine."

*         *         *

"So was Michael your only suitor?" Clarice asked. "I can't imagine a beautiful woman like you not having a whole squadron of men in hot pursuit." The women were sitting in the "kitchen" of the bachelor apartment the RMN had leased for Caraway after assigning her to Grayson. Gary had escorted Clarice to the door and left the two women alone with a promise to return for his wife around midnight.

The other woman had brought dinner for two and a plastic bottle labelled with the name of Grayson's most popular soft drink. The bottle, however, didn't contain soda, but a foul concoction that could only be considered a "liquor" due to its alcohol content. It was distilled from a variant of the sweet potato that grew only on Grayson's orbital farms, and the Grayson woman had warned her that mixing it with anything but water would only arouse nausea, so the women were drinking it straight from two of Caraway's coffee cups. According to Clarice, the locals simply called it "garbage." The name fit.

The food on Caraway's plate was fairly spicy, and as a result, she was taking big gulps of the hideous beverage almost despite herself. Clarice, on the other hand, was only taking tiny sips from her cup, and Caraway suspected that the Grayson woman's food wasn't nearly as spicy as her own. Clarice was currently an unknown quantity, and Caraway had hoped that the other woman would get properly drunk _with_ her, but at least she wasn't an amateur.

"He was actually my fiance," Caraway answered. "On Manticore, we don't really talk about "suitors." The phrase we use is "boyfriend" or "girlfriend." He was the second one with whom things got really serious."

"And your first boyfriend was..?"

"That probably comes under the heading of "Mantie Harlot." Do you really want to hear about it?" Caraway was extremely grateful that the Grayson woman had volunteered her shoulder, and hadn't really intended to test her, but the whole issue of trust hung on the answer to this question.

Clarice took a small sip of the garbage and leaned back in Caraway's chair. "Gary and I are both pretty liberal, at least for Graysons. If I was worried over hearing about different sexual customs, your own personal love life, or the idea that you might curse or talk about sex in a pretty direct way once you've got enough alcohol in you, I wouldn't be here."

"Well, I'll trust you on that and we'll see how it goes. My first boyfriend was named Tina. Not a boy at all, I'm afraid. Do you still want to hear about it?"

"Oh yes," Clarice waved the worry away. "You've probably hit on the one, single sexual issue that won't give the average Grayson hives. When one woman takes herself and another woman out of the mating game here on Grayson, the rest of us are inclined to throw a party. I suppose it bothers some of the men, but women _certainly_ don't worry about it. And even within a marriage you'll sometimes find women who love each other."

"You mean physically? That's not the Grayson I've heard about."

"But that's only because you don't understand our history. Imagine yourself on Grayson a thousand years ago. To your horror, only one live male is born for every three females despite your faithful worship of God. How do you understand this in theological terms?"

"One faction, the Faithful, linked this to God's continuing punishment of females for the sins of Eve and the Second Fall. It was not necessary to do _anything_ about the issue because while there might be some emotional pain involved, in theological terms it wasn't a problem at all, and a husband could simply take his pain out on his wife. Man would continue to dominate woman, and woman would do exactly what men ordered three times over. In terms of marriage, a man would enter into three separate marriage contracts which would essentially be property transfers, and he could give those women any orders, burden them with any work, and punish them as he and God saw fit."

"The other faction felt that our society was undergoing its Test. While the Church had always preached polygamy, it had never before been _forced_ upon anyone, and now, due to the low birthrate everyone had to breed if humans were to survive on Grayson at all. To the Moderates, the onus was upon the people of Grayson to adjust to the problem with a certain amount of appropriate and just behavior. Among other things, this meant at least considering the emotional and physical needs of women before re-writing the social contract, and talking in clear terms about what the changes in the birth ratio would mean in terms of social adjustments. For example, how do you deal, in a manner simultaneously biblical and just, with the physical needs of a woman who can't lie with her husband every night?"

"The solution found by the Moderates was to assume that every person in the marriage was bound to every other person in the marriage _by the same contract,_ and the contract would be an exchange of _obligations_ rather than property in which the man promised to give the women protection and guidance. Two, three, or even four well-educated adults could, with the advice and help of the Church, work out the sleeping arrangements so everyone's _legitimate_ needs were met, though that's not nearly as liberal in practice as it sounds."

"Naturally, these theologies didn't work themselves out instantly; they evolved over several generations, and the controversy didn't take place in the language that I just used. It was discussed in very abstract theological terms, and the debate went on for three centuries until each side had evolved a separate set of customs aimed at dealing with the problem. The Moderates and the Faithful argued over several other issues as well, such as the power of the Church and the role of technology in creating a society that could survive on Grayson, but eventually there were two distinct groups practicing two distinct sets of customs, and this theological split resulted in our civil war."

"To complicate matters, the Faithful and the Moderates weren't the only political factions. There were also a number of people who fell somewhere in between, and they evolved into our present day Conservatives. In order to recruit the these "middle of the road" types to fight by their side, the Moderates engaged in a little theological horse trading."

"The Moderates would get their way about who married who, and under what circumstances, but the Conservatives would get to write the rules about what constituted appropriate sexual behavior."

Caraway laughed. This _was_ the Grayson she'd heard of, and the devil _was,_ after all, in the details. "So you and Gary and two hypothetical co-wives can form whatever pairs, trios or quartets you'd like, but..."

"But we can't entice one another into sexual congress through the wearing of salacious underwear," Clarice's voice was a little too serious, her expression two shades more repressive than suitably prim. "We can't perform the marital act while half clothed. We're not allowed to bring any material which might be used for training animals into the bedroom, and we are not allowed to reverse the proper authoritative roles of husband and wife while engaging in the connubial act, plus about a hundred other things which I had to read out loud to a Church Wardress and sign off on individually before I was allowed to marry my husband."

"Oh dear."

Clarice continued, absolutely deadpan. "A pillow cannot be placed beneath my buttocks during the marital act, and I am not allowed to assume any position which emulates the mating postures of animals. Co-wives may not stimulate one another artificially, and marital congress shall take place only between the hours of dusk and dawn. I may neither curse nor shout while enjoying the attentions of my husband. I am not allowed to kneel before him, nor may I elevate myself in such a manner as to place my head above the level of his head while performing my connubial duties unless he is injured."

Caraway crossed her arms and stared at the Grayson woman. "You guys must go through a lot of band-aids."

Clarice threw back her head and laughed. The rich full sound filled the tiny apartment. "I never thought of that one, but if you mean to imply that the rules are honored more in the breach than in fond obedience, you might be right. Gary and I, of course, are perfectly obedient to the Church." Caraway didn't believe that for a second, but she kept her mouth shut. "The point of this long history, however, is that you can tell me anything you want about your relationship with Tina, unless at any time one of you wore undergarments which were not made of undecorated white cotton with a single strand of elastic less than one inch wide."

Caraway laughed, as much for Tina, who would have enjoyed Clarice's company, as for herself, then she trailed off at the omnipresent thought of Tina's passing, and found herself looking down at the table. "Even though the memories are good, I spend a lot of time trying not to think about her, but that's gotten a lot harder since I moved here. She died a couple years back about 800 million kilometers from Grayson. She was the tac officer on Madrigal."

"Oh Sweet Tester," Clarice said. "I hope she died with the ship."

"Fortunately, she did."

Silence hung in the air around them for a little while, then Clarice asked, "What was she like?"

"She looked very much like you, but she had a more slender build, and you've got at least fifteen centimeters on her. She had a horrible, dark sense of humor, and a fiendishly clever way of handling those who bothered her, but once you got past the barriers, she was incredibly kind." Thoughts of their first night together - Caraway's first night with anyone - went past in a bittersweet instant of remembrance. "I try to think of her with the joy her memory deserves, but the way she died just weighs down on that in a terrible way." Caraway picked up a fork and fiddled a little with the food, then realized that she wasn't really that hungry.

"I'm sorry," Clarice patted Caraway's hand by way of apology. "I shouldn't have pressed you on the subject." She took a tiny sip from her cup.

"No. It's all right. Let me get a little more liquor in me and I'll talk your ears off about her."

"I can do that." Clarice poured her a healthy shot of garbage. "While we're waiting for the medicine to take effect, why don't you tell me about what happened with Michael."

Caraway didn't say anything, merely fumbled with the front pocket of her tunic, got out the letter Michael had sent her, and flicked it across her little table to Clarice.

 _"Dear Caraway,"_ Clarice read, _"It is with great sorrow that I write this letter terminating our engagement. The year following your accident has been full of ups and downs for me, ranging from the shattering moment when I learned that you could not respond to regeneration medicine, to the glorious day you received the Manticore Cross for your extraordinary service in command of Hummingbird during Third Yeltsin."_

_"The sad fact of the matter is that you've changed, and not for the better. Aside from the fact that you're now crippled for life, with a corresponding effect on everything from your ability to take a walk in the woods to our sex life, there have also been corresponding effects on your personality and your personal decisions."_

_"To put it in a word, you have become... bitter is not the word, though I think there is component of bitterness to your recent behavior, but very, very hard and very easily angered. I think your decision to stay in the Navy, even (essentially) accepting a demotion to change branches, was a very bad decision, and could lead to accusations that might be successfully used against me in the political career I hope to begin in the next election cycle."_

Clarice put the letter down and looked across the table. "You were demoted?"

"Not exactly. Once you get to a certain point in your career, its assumed that changing branches is not a simple matter. Aside from the issues of rank, education and training, there's a certain element of what you've actually spent your time doing. I was in the combat arm, and had worked my way up to Commander, but my abilities in Intelligence were circumscribed by a certain lack of experience. They were going to promote me to Captain JG after Third Yeltsin, and that was expected to be my mustering out rank, and I probably would have been promoted if I'd recovered from my injuries. The simple fact of the matter is that I was lucky to stay in at all. If aptitude tests hadn't shown that I had the making of an excellent intelligence analyst, they would have pensioned me off. Even so I'm restricted to groundside duty."

"So now Michael thinks you're a political liability?"

"I've come to the conclusion that Michael is a Grade A shit." Caraway was suddenly trembling with rage. She found herself unable to sit still anymore, and she took an angry gulp of her liquor, then wheeled herself across the apartment, picked up the jade mermaid statue Michael had given her on the anniversary of their first date, and tossed it into the duraplast shipping box she'd bought on the way home. "I just can't believe he thinks that way about me."

Clarice raised one exquisite eyebrow. "He's very wrong. Besides the fact that both Grayson steaders and Manticoran voters both owe you a debt of gratitude, what would happen to his political career if it was learned that he had left someone who wore your nations highest decoration simply because of her injuries. There's the potential for some pretty spectacular revenge here."

"As pissed as I am, I'm not sure I want to think that way."

"Then we haven't gotten enough liquor down you." Clarice said calmly, and refilled the coffee cup again. "On the subject of ending his political career, your feelings aren't the only one's that should concern you. What about the feelings of a district full of Manticoran voters who are suddenly represented by a man who can't keep his promises?"

"I-" Now was not the time to make such a decision. "Let's put that on hold." Caraway noticed the seashells she and Michael had found together on a walk by Jason Bay, and she rolled herself across the room to pick them up.

Clarice continued reading aloud. _"I realize that intelligence is an important arm of the service, and expect you to make an excellent contribution to the war effort, but I have made enquiries, and discovered that without field experience, the highest grade you can expect to reach will be Captain SG, and this also has political consequences for me. I can certainly understand your reluctance to go home to your parent's house, even temporarily, but as I told you before you left for Grayson, I would have been happy to support you while you transitioned into a career that was more suited to your current physical abilities."_

"Listen to this man." Clarice said, "He's pretty willing to help you as long as you're doing what he wants..." Caraway had noticed that herself. "Do you have problems with your parents?" asked the other woman.

"We don't wanna go there. My parents are completely bonkers... The worst nightmares of your conservatives couldn't come close to the reality of my parents and the way they carry on."

"Bonkers? Is that a religion?"

"Bonkers means crazy. Most Satan worshipping perverts are at least..." Caraway thought about the last letter from the person who was currently attempting to fulfill the role of "mother," whatever that meant in a family situation as strange as hers. Apparently "mother," "father" and "thing" had recently gotten involved with some kind of Mesan Cyborg cult and were headed off to Beowulf for some extreme body modification. "Let's save that for the next forty or fifty drinking sessions."

"That many?" Clarice looked at her with a sort of baffled horror.

"Not really, I've had a lot of therapy, and I've already worked most of it out. It's just... complicated. I think we should leave that one alone for tonight." And every night thereafter, thanks very much.

 _"Further,"_ Clarice read, _"I have some issues with the grooming decisions you have made. Allowing your hair to return to its normal curly state didn't bother me, but your decision to wear it in the dreadlocked style makes your hair look matted and makes you seem poorly groomed."_  
Clarice put the letter down on the table. "You realize," she said, "that I have no idea what he's talking about."

"He's talking about these." Caraway reached up and indicated her dreads. "He thinks they look ungroomed." She took another drink. "In the Star Kingdom we usually treat hair like mine with chemicals to make it straight or else wear it short, which I hate. Most people who wear dreadlocks are members of a small religious cult from Old Earth. After my injury I found that it took me fifteen minutes to get dressed in the morning, even with robot assistance, so the time had to come from somewhere. These aren't a fashion decision, they're a matter of-" Caraway stopped at the sudden and embarrassing realization of how loud her voice had gotten. "convenience."

"You've had this fight before, haven't you."

"I've... yeah. I'm sorry I raised my voice."

"All that shouting must have made you thirsty."

Clarice tried to pour another slug of garbage, but was stopped by Caraway's hand.

"Any more and you'll be cleaning up after a lovely episode of nausea," Caraway warned.

Clarice put the soda bottle down. "I have to say I disagree with your ex. Your hair fits you perfectly. It's just the right length for your face, and the way the "dreadlocks" stick straight out then flop in all directions gives you a lively look that reflects everything I've seen about your approach to life just perfectly."

Clarice picked up the letter and continued reading. _"Lastly, the artificial system that was installed to compensate for the lack of sensation in your private parts has led to a form of sexual response from you that I have trouble with. Despite the assurance that you have something very much resembling your previous climaxes, your responses seem mechanical, almost cyborg-like, and I find this very disturbing."_

Clarice put the letter down and looked across the tiny table at Caraway. "I'm starting to feel like I'm in over my head here. He seems to be saying that..." she paused to think about it some more, "that some kind of prosthetic has made you perverse?"

"That's not exactly it. You understand the nature of my injury, right?"

"The hit on Hummingbird's bridge cut your spinal cord." Clarice took another tiny sip of her garbage.

"The injury didn't just "cut" my spinal cord. That would have been what the doctors call an "incomplete injury." My spinal cord was completely severed. From about my belly-button on down, there's absolutely no sensation whatsoever. Since I don't respond to regen, and can't handle nerve grafts or artificial nerves, I'm stuck with it."

"So the doctors gave you artificial private parts?" Clarice stared at her in astonishment and horror. "That's... That's..." the other woman clamped down on whatever she was thinking, and the next thing on her utterly astonished mind slipped out around the thought she was blocking. "How do they do that!?"

Caraway held up a hand. "It's not what you're thinking. I still have..." she spent a moment of half-drunken puzzlement on the issue of how to talk about her private parts without offending against any possible Grayson taboos, "I still have my original equipment. Since all the alternatives are closed to me, the doctors simply implanted a fairly primitive artificial sensory system down there. I've got three chips in my head, you see." Caraway made a shaky grab for Clarice's hand, then leaned forward and put the other woman's fingers on the back of her head. "Here. Those things that feel like little coins under my scalp? Three chips. One is for bowel and bladder control. I work it off my bracelet either twice a day or when it beeps at me. The shecond chip - Oh shit, I'm really getting drunk. Sorry about the language. Would you take this away and fill it with that orange juice you brought?"

"I'll fill it with water. At this point orange juice will just make you sick." The Grayson woman carefully poured the garbage back into the soda bottle and closed the lid.

"Thanks. Now where wash I?" Caraway giggled. The loss of control was starting to be funny to her.

"Your chips."

"That's right. I was on the _second_ chip, which is for controlling my grav chair when I use it. The third chip is attached to all those sensors the doctor's put into my private parts. Because of my medical problems, it's all fairly primitive stuff."

"I see."

"So anyway, I've got all these sensors, and they connect to the right areas of my brain - you know, the sensory centers and the pleasure centers and stuff, and when I'm stimulated, I get to enjoy my... what did you say earlier? I get to enjoy my connubial duties. But what my dickhead ex didn't understand, mainly because he didn't come to the sexual rehab sessions with me, is that I can interface the chip to a computer, and tweak all the little issues like response time, the way the randomization works, all the things that influence how it feels. I'd only just started playing around with it when I got sent here, so he only got to experience the most primitive form of what the chip can do. You shee?" Caraway took a big drink of the water and felt herself steady down a little.

The Grayson woman still looked perturbed. "So if you'd had a chance to spend more time in the bedroom with Michael, he would have liked your "responses" better?"

"He could even had helped define them." Caraway giggled. "He could have fiddled around with the program and then we could have tried it out. That would have been lots of fun!"

Clarice gawked at her for a moment, then took a long and deeply serious drink of the awful Grayson liquor. She sat the cup down and blinked twice. "This kind of thing is so far out of my experience I'm hardly able to deal with it. I've got so many things I want to ask that I scarely know how to begin, and I'm pretty sure they're mostly dumb questions."

"I understand. I had lots of "dumb" questions at first. But those dumb questions deal with the most bashic - I mean basic - issues, so ask away."

"I'm not even sure where to start. It just all seems so artificial," Clarice protested, "even without the issue of prosthetics. If, because of your injuries, you can't feel desire at all, how can sex be anything but some man just satisfying himself at you?"

"Don't be silly!" Caraway scolded, "What makes you think I can't feel desire? I've still got all my glands and they still pump all the usual shtuff into my system. I can even get pregnant if I want to," she bragged. "The prosthetic nervous system just makes me able to fully enjoy that desire when the occasion comes up." Caraway looked the Grayson woman straight in the eye. "Even if I couldn't feel "desire" as such, I'd still want to be touched, because that's attached to so many other things, like feeling that someone loves me."

"I guess I can understand that, but don't the feelings your electrical nerves give you feel... wrong somehow?"

"Not really wrong. They're different sometimes. They made a very thorough brain map, and I was awake for the operation, so there was a lot of "how does this feel" and "is that too intense" while they were placing the electrodes. I left surgery having already felt a basic climax. They even have a little software gimmick that stimulates my brain to produce endorphins when the climax is done, so I have that nice floaty feeling afterward."

"But doctors making you - making you have a climax, isn't that - I'd be so disgusted." Clarice's hands started rubbing each other, like she was washing them, then the other woman noticed what she was doing and laid her hands flat on the table. A second later the Grayson woman had wrapped her hands around the cup of garbage, and was taking another big drink.

"You're catching up!" Caraway giggled. "That's good. I'd noticed you taking those tiny sips, and I was starting to get upshet at you because you weren't getting drunk with me. Where were we? Oh yeah, I was explaining about sex."

"You wanna understand this? It's really shimple. Imagine being thirty four years old and wearing diapers. Then imagine the doctor that helps you regain control of your bowel and bladder. Would you let him or her give you an orgasm? I trusted my doctor. In fact," she went on in a drunken sort of sentimentality, "I really, really love her. You see, you jusht gotta consider the alternative. I spent fifteen days in the hospital getting better with quickheal, and when I went in I was so ignorant I didn't know there was an alternative to never feeling a lover inside me again. Then there were four months of rehab, two of them spent in diapers. I had a long time think about the consequences of not having an artificial nervous system installed. When they wheeled me out of OR I was crying, not because of the quality of my climax, or the deep love I'd been shown, but because the alternative was so much worse."

Clarice still looked a little confused. "I guess that's true too. It just seems so strange to me. We don't have that kind of medical technology, and I can't imagine telling a doctor that he'd satisfied me, or even discussing the idea of how to connect my genitals to a machine."

"Even from the Manticoran perspective on sex it was pretty weird. Of course, I was doped up during surgery, so I didn't really have any inhibitions to speak of, and I had a woman doctor, which really helped. The real trouble was that Michael couldn't make it on the day my surgery was scheduled. He's a lawyer, and he said the judge wouldn't reschedule the deposition, but you know what?" Caraway stared owlishly at Clarice. "I think he was lying." A sudden wave of grief washed over Caraway. Had the problems with Michael really started that far back?

Clarice's face relaxed; apparently the idea that Caraway's "suitor" had initially been scheduled to help Caraway through the operation had put her back on familiar ground. "It sounds like your fiance failed his Test, and is missing out on the very lovely reward he would have been granted had he passed."

It took Caraway a plastered moment or two to parse this bit of Grayson theology, then she sniffed in a moment of drunken sentimentality. "That's so nice."

The Grayson woman picked up the letter again and started to read. _"While I will always think kindly of you, I must confess, with great sadness, that I no longer wish to marry you. I hope we can remain friends._

_Sincerely,_

Michael"

It was not the just the terrible irony of the word "Sincerely" that finally broke the barriers Caraway had set up to get through that first terrible afternoon at work, it was also the way Clarice pronounced the word, filling it up with her infinite sympathy and kindness. Caraway dropped the box she'd filled with relics of the relationship and hugged herself while big tears rolled down her face. The souvenirs of her life with Michael rolled over her unfeeling legs and out onto the tiled floor, and at the sight of them Caraway began to sob.

"Would you like me to hold you?" Clarice asked. At Caraway's nod, she knelt on the floor next to the wheelchair and took the weeping woman in her arms. "It's all right, she murmured, "let it out."

"I just wanted him to love me," Caraway sobbed, "and he was such a goddamn piece of shit." She sobbed about being dumped for a little while, and she was on the verge of calming down again when she thought of her first love. As she held that first love up against the memory of Michael, there was a second spate of sobbing, because she was sure that Tina would have been there in the operating room, in sex rehab, and for all the long years thereafter. It was an ugly cry, filled with incidents of shouting and fury, but Clarice was there through it all, holding her and encouraging her to pour her feelings out.

When everything was said and done, the Grayson woman rolled her over to the bed, helped her under the covers, then sat down next to her. "I promise you," said Clarice, "that there will be someone to love you someday, someone who recognizes your strength and beauty, someone who wants you so badly that wheelchairs and sensors mean nothing to them." She leaned down and kissed Caraway's forehead, then went and busied herself in the kitchen. Caraway held the feeling of the kiss close, and fell asleep bathed in its warmth and comfort.

*         *         *

A couple months later, she was holding her entire weight on the fingers of both hands as she levered her butt onto the next stair. Gary and all the Grayson officers he'd recruited to bet against her stood several steps down watching the sweat roll down her face. Suddenly she couldn't push any farther. She turned around and discovered that she'd bumped against Commodore Burdette's shoes. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, looking down at her with a hideous false kindness. Commodore Burdette was not only the personnel officer, but also Gary's ultraconservative uncle Winslow, and she had only been brought into the office against his very vocal objections. She sometimes wondered whether he'd brought Gary into the office hoping that his nephew would be a counter weight against her tendency to take the locals to the cleaners whenever she could get away with it, but if that was the case, the plan had backfired badly.

Caraway tried to be nice. "We're settling a friendly little bet. These gentlemen are very sure I can't get up the stairs by myself. I disagreed."

"If you were a Grayson officer," he said, "I'd have to describe this as "conduct unbecoming," but the proper rules of female behavior apparently don't apply to Manticoran females, do they? However, since I _am_ senior to you, I'll simply settle for ordering you back to your office at once. In fact, I'll give you the help an injured comrade can always use." He reached down, wrapped his arms around her, picked her up like a sack of potatoes, and carried her down the stairs. His juniors, who had gathered to watch the settling of the bet on which they had indeed given her very good odds, watched this performance with a horrified fascination.

After Caraway had been put back into her wheelchair, and forcibly pushed into her office by Commodore Burdette, she gave that worthy a moment to return to his own area of the building, then wheeled herself back out into the hallway to face the crowd of anxious Grayson officers. "As you'll recall, gentlemen," she said, "given the amount of money that was at stake, we agreed that if anyone interfered with my progress up the stairs, I would be judged the winner. Pay up." If the comments she heard were any measure of the resentment the Graysons felt toward their very conservative personnel officer, Commodore Burdette was in for a difficult week.

A month later, one Commander Gerald Harrison, who had cheerfully accepted the post of recreation officer, organized a racquetball tournament. Commodore Burdette, by way of apology to his junior officers, (and at Gary's suggestion) organized a wagering pool despite his religious issues with the idea of gambling, and the expression on his face as he counted out her winnings was something she would remember with joy for the rest of her life.

Two months later, no-one in the office would make a bet with either Caraway or Gary under any circumstances whatsoever, and the number of incidents where a Grayson officer treated her like a Manticoran harlot, a cripple, or a little girl had declined substantially. Though a few very conservative fellows still obviously disliked her, most of the men acted like she was a sort of plucky little sister who had earned the right to hang out with the guys.

Meanwhile, she had also become good friends with Clarice,

The Grayson woman was almost entirely self-educated, and though this meant her knowledge base wasn't terribly broad, she was a near-genius in the areas that interested her. She had begun her reading by studying art, and this had led to an interest in creating holographic images of her own. Practising that hobby had gotten her involved with the deeper arcana of rendering software, and it was here that she was making her mark. In an attempt to modernize their computer industry, the Graysons had reintroduced an old concept of program development called "Open Source Software," and Clarice, under the name of C. Harrison, had become a frequent, and very successful, contributor to a rendering package called Omniquill, which was used by the laser artists who projected their work directly onto the domes of Grayson's cities. She wasn't a great programmer - yet - but she was a genius at developing new tools from the scripting language that came with the software, and her contributions were a popular part of every release.

Caraway suspected that there were a number of female contributors to the various codebases out of which "open source" software was compiled, and that one of the more interesting parts of Grayson's revolution would take place one day at a software conference when the male nerds looked around them and discovered that they were outnumbered.

Despite Clarice's essential geekiness and her tendency to mother Caraway just a little, the Grayson woman didn't like to be cooped up in the house for long, and she became Caraway's constant companion and cultural tour guide. Together she and Caraway explored all the parts of Mayhew Steading to which two women could safely travel, seeking out art museums and galleries, examples of ancient architecture, and old shopping districts where interesting items might be found. Sometimes Gary joined them, and at other times Commander Elijah Jackson, who enjoyed Caraway's company in a platonic sort of way, served as their escort. Caraway didn't like the system, but playing along kept her away from the kind of unpleasantness she sometimes encountered when she went out alone.

When no male was available to join them the two women went "visiting," and as Caraway became acquainted with the wives of her brother officers, she found herself seeing a side of Grayson that was much speculated about, but seldom seen by that planet's Manticoran allies. A star nation with a three to one ratio of females to males, where women were customarily refused the right to work had to make some compromises, and Caraway discovered that the "women's area" of many a Grayson house functioned as a sort of miniature industrial complex. Captain Griswold's two wives, for example, claimed to practice ceramics as a "hobby," but the fine, hand-painted china they fired in two kilns behind their house sold for a queen's ransom, and the eighteen-month waiting list for one of their table services read like a "Who's Who" of Grayson's movers and shakers. Other wives did "behind the scenes" work for their husbands, processing documents or entering data. Colonel Franklin's three elderly wives had started out helping him with non-classified bookkeeping while he was the supply officer at a Grayson Marine base, and had continued in that line of work long after he had a staff of his own. Using one of their son-in-laws as a front, they successfully did accounting work for a dozen local businesses. Even if a woman had no skills whatsoever, Grayson's booming economy generated substantial opportunities for piecework. It wasn't quite hypocrisy, because everyone, including the tax collector, understood how business was done, but a substantial part of Grayson's economic activity was nonetheless "underground."

As Caraway started to understand the system, she came to suspect that Captain Steven's discussion of her upset over Micheal and his order that she "take the usual cure" while Gary was in the office had been no accident, and that Gary's immediate discussion of that order with his wife had simply been a matter of passing the task on to the person best suited to execute it - a good listener whose husband's rank was the same as Caraway's own.

After her first few weeks of "visiting' with Clarice, the Manticoran woman began to suspect that she'd been making a number of mistakes in dealing with the locals. She began, where appropriate, to make use of the "grapevine" that operated through the officer's wives, and found that the results were usually positive.

Perhaps even more important, as Caraway became better acquainted with the wives of her brother officers, she found that she was invited more frequently to the dinners, luncheons, and other events which are not only the staples of any officer's social life, but also places where important military business is done.

Most important of all, as the wound of being dumped began to heal, Caraway discovered that she was falling in love. Gary was not just a gentleman, but a gentle man, and patient not only with his junior officers, but with himself as well. More than once, after a tough loss on the raquetball court, he'd shrug, wipe his sweaty face, smile at her and say, "There's always next time." When he finally won a game and she floated across the court to gave him a congratulatroy hug, he was so pleased with himself that he forgot the usual Grayson courtesies and hugged her in return. The feel of his sweaty body against her's was a jolting reminder of how long it had been since she'd felt a lover's touch, and that night was filled with extremely pleasant dreams.

He didn't have a classically good male body, but since being with him made her feel a little melty, he was obviously handsome. Like many Grayson men of his generation, he'd come up through the ranks a little too quickly, and though he wasn't a prolong recipient, his body still showed its youth. Caraway was no cradle robber, but she'd always enjoyed the visual appeal of a younger man.

Then there was Clarice. Not only was she intelligent, witty, and extremely easy to talk to, but she was one of those people to whom physical contact was very important. There was nothing inappropriate about the way she touched Caraway, but days together always began and ended with hugs from the magnificently endowed Grayson woman, and the spaces in between were filled with pats on the hand or arm and friendly little shoves. Caraway realized very quickly that these little touches didn't mean anything, because Clarice was that way with _everyone_ she liked, but that realization was a function of her rational mind. The irrational part of Caraway's mind, meanwhile, was far too concerned with the hollow of Clarice's neck, which clearly needed some attentive and gentle kissing, to pay even grudging attention to the rational mind's observations.

Despite the intensity of her feelings, Caraway had no intention of acting on them. To her Clarice and Gary were a married couple; she would damn well keep her feelings to herself and simply enjoy their company. Despite an excellent beginner's grasp of the local culture, she had no idea that there were ways for a single woman on Grayson to hint, (usually to an existing wife) not only that she would like to be taken into a particular family, but even about which of the pair she cared for, and whether she saw the possible marriage as romantic, or a matter of business or politics. Even if she'd known how to address her feelings within Grayson's social context, her life experience had firmly informed her that "normal" people lived in two parent families. Marriages between more than two people were for lunatics like mother, father, and "thing." In the end, however, the decision about how this issue would be handled was made by forces far beyond her control; the rumor mill and a deliberately obtuse seating arrangement.

*         *         *

"From the way Captain Stevens was talking about the benefits of a second marriage," Gary said, "I get the feeling that he was hoping to sweeten the deal just a little." Gary and Clarice were sitting in the front seat of the Harrison's old groundcar, and Caraway was sitting in the back with Commander Elijah Jackson.

"I didn't dislike the girl," Clarice said, "but she's not right for our marriage. I can't imagine having any _sisterly_ feelings for her."

"Sisterly?" Caraway asked. The idea that Grayson wives might consider each other sisters was a fairly obvious one, but Clarice's peculiar emphasis made it clear that she was not using the word in it's usual sense. Elijah waved his hand to get the Manticoran woman's attention, then made a gesture that could not possibly be misinterpreted. "Oh." Now wasn't _that_ food for thought.

The elder Mrs. Stevens had seated Molly directly to Gary's left, Caraway directly to Gary's right, and put Clarice directly across the table from her eldest daughter. Captain Stevens, in an obvious bid to get his daughter hitched, had started the dinner conversation with a discussion of how he'd be a Commodore by now if he'd only taken his second wife a couple years earlier. The Harrisons, as might have been predicted, weren't impressed. "As far as I could tell, she's got no backbone." Clarice went on, "I challenged her on a couple of minor issues and she folded at once. I'm probably too gentle, and I tend to think anyone we'd want to add to our marriage would need to have a harder edge. More important, while she seems bright and fairly well educated, she doesn't seem to have any real interests. I'm sure she'd work hard enough at any task we assigned her, but I think there's something to be said for someone who takes a serious interest in something. Lastly, while Captain Stevens seems to think that he's well connected to the military old boys network, most of the wives of high ranking husbands who I've talked to seem to think his prospects for further advancement are cloudy at best, though I haven't yet nosed out what the issue is." Clarice turned and addressed the back seat. "Caraway, what do you think?"

"I'm not terribly good at evaluating these things, but I've got a couple thoughts. First, is it possible that Molly was bending over backwards to be agreeable because that's how she was coached?"

"That certainly happens, though that's a ploy that's generally reserved for marrying one's daughter off to a single male who's extremely conservative. In this case, however," Gary said, "I tend to think that Clarice is right."

"Second," Caraway suggested, "even though Captain Stevens is unlikely to advance much further, he doubtless has lots of friends from his academy days who _are_ Commodores and Admirals now. That fact that he's not advancing doesn't mean he's not well connected to those who have some real power."

Clarice sniffed. "It just didn't smell right to me. It's equally possible he'll tell any powerful friends he might have about how he fobbed a useless daughter off on that damn-fool Harrison. At that point, Gary gets a lower Captaincy and never, ever goes any further until seniority takes over." She sighed "On the other hand, Stevens does have a point. If Gary doesn't take a second wife in the next two years, his prospects for advancement will very quickly stagnate, and I don't like that at all."

Gary sighed, "We're definitely going to have to address that soon. Elijah, do you know any eligible women?"

Commander Jackson made a puzzled noise. "I thought you two were courting Miss Leibowitz."

Caraway whipped her head around to stare goggle-eyed at Commander Jackson. Clarice gave a little snort and Caraway's heart sank. She'd never had any intention of interfering with the Harrison's marriage, but that hadn't kept her from hoping that the either Gary or his lovely wife were at least thinking similar thoughts. Gary blinked and said, "Oh, that explains what Uncle Winslow was talking about."

"Uncle Winslow?" asked Commander Jackson.

"Commodore Burdette is a relative of mine," Gary replied. "He recently told me that he "dislikes some of my personal choices." At the time I had no idea what he was talking about." He risked a look into the back seat and wiggled his eyebrows at Caraway. "I guess we've entered the rumor mill."

"Oddly enough," said Jackson, "Except for the opinions of a few reactionaries, the general consensus is that it would be an extremely good marriage. The three of you obviously get along like a house on fire, and you and Caraway work together very smoothly, a fact to which my wallet can attest. Caraway definitely has that harder edge Clarice was talking about, and while she doesn't have any family connections to the _Grayson_ military, most of us think the idea that you've got _Manticoran_ patronage will give you a nice career boost. Caraway may not want a Grayson marriage, but if she'd consider it, she wouldn't ever find anyone nicer than the two of you. Best of all Clarice, she wouldn't offer any contention for Gary's uh... physical affections."

Caraway was just opening her mouth to squash the notion that she was without urges when Clarice said, in a slightly icy tone, "That's not entirely true." Caraway remembered the Grayson woman's reaction to the idea of a sex life based on electronic sensors, however bravely come by, and the reason for Clarice going stiff at the idea of marrying her was obvious immediately.

Gary, on the other hand, was beginning to smile. Clearly the idea had some appeal for him. Caraway's heart began to pound, and she could feel herself beginning to blush. She'd seen Grayson wives holding hands and even cuddled up together. The thought of spending a day in close physical contact with Clarice, particularly if the Grayson beauty was feeling "sisterly," followed by a night in Gary's arms seemed very much like paradise. On the other hand, she'd sworn that she'd never live in a crazy triangular relationship like her parents - she knew it would drive any children into serious unhappiness and result in a family that was cast out of whatever community they tried to live in. But maybe the craziness was in her parents, not in their marriage. This chance wasn't likely to come again, and she'd be a fool to throw it away because she was scared of "growing up to be like her mom." What she really wanted was time to think, but she was completely out of her cultural depth. How could she tell Gary that she'd like to hear an offer, without sending Clarice into a panic?

While Caraway hurriedly sorted her options, Gary glanced at his wife, took in her expression, and quickly changed course. "It's certainly not the worst idea I've ever heard," he hazarded, "but unless Caraway has some serious romantic feelings for me, I'm not sure what the marriage would offer her. She certainly doesn't need a marriage for the same reasons I do. Look at Admiral Kuzak. Clearly no-one asked whether she was married before they gave her a fleet."

The car came to a through stop, and Gary took moment to look over his shoulder into the back seat. "This must be really strange for you Caraway. What do you think of all this?" His expression begged her to handle the situation with kid gloves.

Commander Jackson spoke quickly. "She looks," he commented, "like she's scared to death, though I'm not sure whether she's frightened of what we crazy Grayson neo-barbs might do to her, terrified of her own feelings, or unnerved by the horrors your masculine virility might force upon her tender female nature."

"Actually," Caraway said, "I think-"

Clarice interupted her. "I don't think we need to discuss this at all. The entire idea is ridiculous. It's humiliating to Caraway, it doesn't solve the problem of a good marriage for Gary, and from Elijah's behavior, it has far too much potential for jokes at my expense. If anyone has something serious to say about the real issue, I'm willing to hear it, but as far as I'm concerned, this discussion is over!" Clarice, having put the lot of them in their places, made a huffing sound, settled herself firmly into her seat, and gazed rigidly out the front window. Caraway let out a deep breath and put her head in her hands. At the sound of the Manticoran woman's sigh, Clarice turned around. "And as for you, I know you've gotten over getting dumped and you'd be happy to have a nice man, but don't you ever think of going poaching in my house. If Commander Jackson thinks you'd be such a fine catch, maybe you and he should get together!"

"I'd certainly consider an offer from a nice, considerate man like Commander Jackson," Caraway said. She felt like she'd been slapped, but they were pulling up to her apartment block, and if nothing else, she wanted to escape the car with her dignity intact. "He could even be married already, as long as I knew his wife was a sweet woman who would never shout at me." The car stopped and she, Gary, and Clarice sat in uncomfortable silence while Commander Jackson got out and went around to the back of the vehicle. He got Caraway's wheelchair out of the trunk and unfolded it on the sidewalk next to the car. She opened the door and Commander Jackson helped her into the chair. Oddly enough, he had a big smile on his face.

"That was very well handled," he said after the Harrison's had driven away, "Let's go up to your place."

"That's a lovely offer," she said, "but I've just been thoroughly humiliated, and I'd much rather be alone right now." Maybe she could read some of Tina's old letters before going to bed, and enjoy a good memory or two.

"It wasn't that kind of offer." Commander Jackson scolded. "Even if I wasn't courting her, Molly would kill me if slept with you."

"She would? You're courting her?" Caraway was beginning to feel the weight of one too many surprises.

"Oh yes. You don't think that any member of the Stevens family could be that clumsy about matchmaking on accident, do you? Molly worked very hard pretending to be dumb and overly-compliant earlier this evening, and you can safely bet everything you own that the stupid speech you heard from Captain Stevens was carefully scripted to be overbearing and obnoxious. I don't know about you, but I thought the caraway seeds on the sticky buns Mrs. Stevens served with coffee were a bit of incidental genius. I wonder whether Clarice even noticed what she was eating."

"What in the world are you talking about." Caraway opened the gate to the complex and pushed herself toward the elevator with a series of angry shoves on the rear wheels of her chair.

"Think about it. By now you've figured out that most of the wives either help their husbands or have a "hobby." What do you think Mrs. Stevens does?"

"As far as I can tell she's a social butterfly who doesn't do much of anything."

"You couldn't be more wrong. She's the city's foremost practitioner of a very ancient Grayson art."

Suddenly Clarice got it. "She sets up - she designs - not just marriages, but whole families. That's why Captain Stevens has been sitting in that office for the last ten years. Making him a Commodore would mean sending him to a duty station outside the capital. And that's why you're a Commander even though you're not married." She gasped. "You front for her!"

Elijah made a little bow. "Exactly."

Caraway opened the door and wheeled herself in. Commander Jackson followed her into the little apartment and very carefully propped the door open. "But why do I merit the royal treatment?" she asked.

"First of all, the wives like you. You've obviously got a clear grasp of how the system works, and that's made quite a positive impression. Secondly, even though you've robbed us blind, the men you work with all, at the very least, respect you. You still would have paid a couple thousand austins to have Mrs. Stevens and company to set you up with one of our fastest-rising families, except for one thing. Mrs. Stevens didn't do it. Molly did."

"Now I'm lost again." Caraway said. She had no idea of what she was supposed to do at this point. Should she be angry at getting manipulated or grateful that someone had given the Harrisons a push in her direction? And what did she really want to do about all this anyway?

"Mrs. Stevens put it out through the wives grapevine a couple months ago that she'd really like to see her husband get his promotion. Word came back from Admiral Garret's wife that a demonstration of Molly's prowess as a matchmaker, and a guarantee that she'll stay here in the capital for a few years was the requirement for our boss's career to come unstuck. The plan is for me to marry Molly, front for her, and warm that seat in the Captain's office for the next decade while my bride becomes the most influential woman this side of the Protector's Palace. We were looking around for something impressive to set up, then one day the older Mrs. Franklin noticed you watching Clarice just a little too closely. The only question at this point is whether you want the marriage."

"Whether I want the marriage? I'm not sure about that at all. I'd certainly consider a real offer, but it seems like the real issue is Clarice." As she said the last few words, Caraway felt the lump in her throat beginning to overwhelm her ability to speak.

"She..." Commander Jackson smiled. "She was protesting too much. What you saw in the car tonight was a fairly standard reaction from an unsistered wife to the idea that her husband has found a real prospect. Can you imagine her delivering a real rejection that nastily?"

Caraway had trouble finding her voice. "I'm not sure that's the problem. I suspect that she'd marry me in a heartbeat if I was whole, but there are some things about my medical situation that really frighten her."

"Oh shit!" Grayson men _never_ cussed. "Sorry. That's a complication we hadn't considered. Maybe you'd better tell me about it."

Caraway wheeled herself over to the computer, as she should have when the question first came up. "Part of the problem is that I explained it so badly," she began, "the other part of the problem is that it was one of Michael's reasons for leaving me."

After a night of surprises, the fact of Molly being both awake and fully dressed to take Elijah's call barely registered, and the speed with which her parents got her over to Caraway's place sometime after midnight was only a minor shock. The seemingly dumb girl from earlier in the evening turned out to be a very bright, extraordinarily self-possessed young woman who understood the medical issues very quickly. She spoke calmly and reassuringly to Caraway, confirmed a couple of her mother's impressions of Clarice, gave a few orders for handling the issue that probably would have been obvious had Caraway been in anything remotely resembling a coherent state of mind, and breezed out the door half an hour later on "her darling Elijah's" arm.

*         *         *

"We've given some thought to what Commander Jackson suggested last night, and for the first time in our lives we're having a very serious disagreement." As per Molly's orders, Caraway had not followed her usual custom of going to church with the Grayson officers and their wives, and Commander Jackson had been instructed to take an overly-bland tone as he told anyone who came remotely near asking that Commander Lebowitz was home suffering from a blinding headache.

Also as instructed, she had set her comm to refuse calls from anyone but a direct superior until the late afternoon. By that point, if Commander Jackson had indeed briefed Gary, Mrs. Harrison would be the only person on the outside of the plot.

The look on Clarice's face when she finally got through to Caraway, apologized for her hysterical behavior, and begged for permission to come and visit her friend had been precious beyond words, and Caraway had some difficulty keeping a straight face. The Manticoran woman had gazed sadly at Clarice, allowed her hand to drift toward the cut off switch, then let loose a melodramatic sigh, and given her reluctant permission for a very short visit to talk things over.

*         *         *

"Clarice and I both think that there are some good arguments for asking you to join the marriage." Gary went on, "The social and political sides of the issue are both very workable in the present climate, and we do both love you. However, Clarice has told me about your sensors. I've got no problem with them, and understand that you're probably going to be a bit different sexually, due to cultural issues, medical issues, and the chips in your head." He shrugged, "It doesn't bother me much. However..." Gary trailed off, and he and Caraway both looked at Clarice.

"I'm just plain terrified of the idea. Even though I love you, and I can easily imagine being friends with you until the day I die, this medical issue terrifies me. You've probably got more processing power inside you than the first couple computers I owned, and so much of it is dedicated to sex... I can't imagine being exposed to it and not being changed somehow. I'm afraid that Gary and I were on the verge of a major blow up when we left for church this morning, but a little bird suggested that I come to your house and ask some more questions." Clarice paused and took a deep breath. "So here I am, but I'm afraid that my questions are still essentially what they were before. Why shouldn't I be afraid of this? How would it be morally safe for my husband," Clarice stopped talking for a moment as a frightened, desperate look passed across her face, "or for me to be in the same bed with you?"

Caraway's heart leaped into low orbit, though she was careful not to let it show. "Michael's letter frightened you more than you let on, didn't it." she said gently, "I suppose that the best thing I can do is show you." Clarice's brown eyes went wide. She drew in a shocked breath, pulled herself away from the Manticoran women, and looked desperately at her husband.

"I don't think that's what we wanted to hear," Gary said, raising one eyebrow and giving Caraway a very disgusted and thoroughly male look.

Caraway and shook her head gently at both of them. "I meant show you why you shouldn't be afraid. Let's go over to the computer." She reached out to Clarice, and after shooting her husband a frightened look, Clarice slowly put her cold fingers into Caraway's steady hand. The Manticoran woman sent a command to her grav-chair, and pulled the woman she loved over to the desk. "Just sit right here on the bed and we'll do a little exploring. No touching, nothing sexual, we're just going to look at the computer. Gary, why don't you come over here too."

"The first thing you should consider," Caraway told Clarice as she turned on the terminal, "is that when you got me drunk I wasn't able to explain things very intelligently. Remember that all you really know about this technology is what you've heard from the bastard who left me, and my own drunken attempt to explain something very complicated in a few sentences."

"The second thing you must consider is that _you_ already have a sexual computer in your head that's more powerful than _any_ computer you've ever owned. That computer comprises your autonomic responses, your sensory apparatus, your glandular system, and your imagination. In fact, I suspect that when it comes to sex, your imagination is considerably more powerful than mine. The difference between your computer and mine is that your computer can connect perfectly to your body. You can experience everything you can imagine, and you can cause others to experience what you imagine."

"On the other hand, my computer is broken. It no longer talks to the equipment it's supposed to control, and as a result, it's been patched together with merely human technology. Unlike you, I'll never wrap my legs around someone I love, never enjoy a foot massage or the sensation of someone nibbling her way up my leg. On the other hand, I can do a few things you can't. So in a very important sense, we're even, right?"

"I guess." Clarice's voice was just this side of miserable.

"All right." Carway nodded. "So you've got advantages and I've got advantages. Now let's look at this." She turned on the software that changed the parameters of her sensory chip. "Here's a little graph. It shows an ordinary female climax. Are you all right with that?" Clarice swallowed nervously and nodded.

"When I say ordinary, I mean that it represents an average taken from a large sample." She pointed at the graph. "Here the theoretical woman is getting excited, and here, at the end of this gradual upward slope, we see an exponential curve leading up very quickly to the moment of inevitability. These are the peaks and valleys as the pleasure oscillates up and down - you'll notice, by the way, that they're a pretty standard example of Fourier analysis - and here you can see the troughs evening back out and approaching the pre-arousal baseline. This is the orgasm the software feeds me every time." Caraway stopped and raised an eyebrow at Clarice.

"I'd never thought it could be graphed," Clarice said, "but I suppose it would look about like that. Does it feel _exactly like this_ every time?"

"No, even in my sadly limited experience, it varies. First of all, there are physical changes that take place involving the parts of my body that _can feel,_ and just in case that doesn't provide enough variation, there's a built in randomization function. So if we want to, we can apply some noise to the basic climax and we get this," Caraway pushed a key, "or this, or this, or this."

"That would be interesting," Clarice, drawn in despite herself, pointed at one of the graphs, "look at all those spikes. I bet you'd get the shivers afterwards."

"You like that one?" Clarice smiled and pressed another button. "Now it's been saved and sent to the chip. Next time I'm aroused, that's how I'll feel, subject to randomization and the exact factors that were involved with the lovemaking. Would you like to see it in three dimensions?"

Clarice stared at her for a moment. "You didn't react at all."

"No, of course not. Just like you, I need to be stimulated before I get happy. If that safeguard wasn't build into the system, nothing would stop me from sitting here at the computer all day and blasting myself with waves of pleasure. That's the real danger right there, so the chips sold on Manticore require a prescription and there are some limits built in as to how much current I can have and how often I can have it. As I recall it works out to a certain time limit each week."

"So moderation is built in. That's good." Caraway could feel a certain amount of Clarice's tension evaporate. "What do all the colors mean?"

"That's little difficult. One of the things I didn't explain terribly well when you got me drunk is that is that the sensors in my private parts aren't the only sensors they installed. There are maybe ten thousand more of them under the parts of my skin that can feel, but these are more like switches than real sensors. They're cheap, wireless, and dumb. Each of them simply broadcasts a network address and a single bit that indicates it's either on or off. Here, put your hand on my arm." Clarice complied rather nervously. "You've just activated a couple hundred sensors. The chip has recorded them as being on and added them to a variable that is represented by a third dimension on the graph. Caraway touched a button and the graph expanded holographically. So now we have one dimension representing time, one dimension representing intensity, and one dimension representing how much general touching is involved in satisfying me. So I can do this," Caraway pulled up a rather basic file she'd carefully constructed the night before, "and make sure that lots of loving and touching is required before I get happy, or I can do this," she pulled up another file, "and accommodate a 'quickie.' See, nothing to be afraid of."

Caraway turned and looked at Clarice. The fear had almost completely faded, and the other woman was staring at the holostage in pure fascination. "It's just like a graphics program," she breathed.

"Exactly, and I can even use a fair number of standard graphical tools to design the curves." Caraway worked the pointer for a moment and part of the graph warped into a lateral green line. "Now I've made things fairly difficult for a lover. He has to find the one little sweet spot that needs to be touched before I'll be satisfied. The greens represent vertical body locations, the reds represent horizontal body locations, and the blues, blacks and whites are involved with just which neurons in my pleasure centers are being stimulated and how much juice they're getting.

Clarice's eyes were bright. "So they really represent dimensions beyond the third. That's astounding. Can you show me more?"

"Sure." Caraway brought up another file, this one a thick multicolored spiral that got bigger and smaller at regular intervals. She touched a key and the display rotated slightly. "Look at this. I mutated it with a fractal alogrithm. If you look at if from just the right angle, you'll see that it looks like an apothecary's rose. My parents used to raise these on the farm, and Michael and I had chosen it as a symbol of our love." She sighed. "I'd built it for the next time I saw him."

Clarice stared into the holostage and blinked as if awakening from a long sleep. "Do you mean Michael could have used a program like this to make your own body give you flowers built of pure pleasure and he left you instead? What a fool! This is... this is an entirely new art form." She paused to think for a moment. "Can you open your file manager?"

"Sure."

Clarice traced the hierarchy of folders for a moment. "This is where you keep the files for the sensory software?" Caraway nodded. "Oh Sweet Tester. These are a standard graphics format." As Molly had foreseen, Clarice's fear had been transformed into a geek's pure fascination with an interesting combination of hardware, software and wetware. "Do you have an encyclopedia on this machine?" Caraway pointed out the icon, and Clarice's finger's danced. "Do you have a file type translator? Oh. Here it is." Clarice played with the computer for a few more minutes and a little plant appeared on the holostage. It had a thin green stem that led to a dozen subsidiary stems, each of which hosted a spray of tiny white and purple flowers. Do you recognize this?"

"Sure. It's a caraway blossom. What a sweet thing to create." Why hadn't she ever thought of that?

Clarice looked at Caraway with a face that was at once both bold and extremely shy. "Can I save this with your sensory files?"

Gary put his arm around his wife and breathed into her ear, "If you're going to play with her "software," he said, "don't you think you ought to give her a kiss first?"

"I guess I _am_ getting ahead of myself," Clarice said quietly, then she brightened. "Is there a manual for this thing?"

"Right here." Caraway pushed the appropriate button, then looked at Gary. He nodded once, smiled ever so sweetly, and mouthed the word, "Gently."

Caraway ran one finger down Clarice's cheek. "Don't I get my kiss first?" The most beautiful woman on Grayson raised her head, pursed her heart shaped mouth, and laid the gentlest of kisses on Caraway's lips. "I think I can answer my own questions from here. Why don't you and Gary make us something for dinner and we'll talk more in a little bit."

*         *         *

The software in her chip is just amazing," Clarice nattered on with all the enthusiasm of a recent convert. She'd been sitting at the console for the better part of an hour, alternately working on some kind of graphic and consulting the manual. "It allows the user to set thresholds for stimulation that range from the tiniest touch to something really difficult to manage, and you can control things down to almost the level of the single neuron. There's even a utility for mapping the "dumb" sensors and dealing with only the network addresses of certain body parts." She smiled mischievously. "It would lend itself to any number of fascinating naughty games - if Caraway agreed to play them. For example, we could blindfold her and bring her into the room with the computer, then give her chip an image file. She wouldn't know exactly what was going to stimulate her. It might be eating or taking a shower. It might be a soft touch like a caress, or something rougher," she looked directly into Caraways face, her eyes bright with mischief, "like a good hard bite - and she wouldn't know what it was. Or we might load her with a file that kept her just below the threshold for hours before it let loose. The possibilities are endless. On the other hand, she could hide her necessary stimulation and we could seek... This is fun."

Gary put his for down carefully on his plate and looked at his wife with a sort of astonished awe. "You haven't been like this since our honeymoon." he commented. "I should add to my harem more often."

Clarice put her hand on her husband's arm, but her warm brown eyes were focused on Caraway. "I'm just like any other girl with a new toy. I can't wait to try it out."

"Not to put a damper on things," Caraway said, "but you understand that there are also going to be things I can't do. For example, when I have the well designed orgasms you want to give me, I may gasp and moan, but nothing below here," she indicated her naval, "is ever going to move at all for the rest of my life. I may climax in the shower because you've loaded the right file, but I'll do it sitting on this grav chair - which may or may not fit through your shower door - with a robot washing everything below my hips. Marrying me would mean rearranging your home, remodelling inconvenient doorways, building ramps where you once had steps, and even with all that, if my grav chair fails you'll still have to carry me up and down the stairs."

"And just to pour some more rain on your parade, you realize that if the _other chip_ fails somehow and I lose bladder and bowel control, that depending on how quickly the Grayson medical establishment gets up to speed and how long it takes White Haven to capture Trevor's Star, it could be a ten-day voyage back to the Star Kingdom while one of you cleans me off, catheterizes me, and changes my diapers three or four times a day. After my experience with Michael I need both of you be fully cognisant of what marrying me might mean if things get rough."

"We talked about some of those issues on the way over here." Gary said. "As well as some you probably haven't considered, like the reaction of the more conservative members of our family, such as Commodore Burdette, to the idea of marrying a Manticoran woman, not to mention what the Church might have to say about it all. If you decide you want to marry us, you may have to fight at our sides for the privilege. Also, you do understand that you'll have to convert to the Church?"

"Yes, I know that. Given my family's history adding one more religion to the pile is hardly an issue. Clarice, am I right in believing that you have no more objections on the basis of my chip?"

"Oh, not at all. In fact, the idea of waiting for our wedding night is just a little distressing to me. Gary, have you seen anything that would make you change your mind?"

"Oh no. Keeping up with the two of you will be a chore, but it's one I'll undertake gladly."

Caraway crossed her arms and looked at the ceiling. "Will you two excuse me for a moment?"

"Certainly," said Gary.

Caraway steered her grav chair out onto the balcony. The laser artists were out in force tonight, playing their colored lights on the inside of the Mayhew dome. It was Sunday, and the themes that played out above her head were mostly religious and historical in nature. She saw Baroque crosses, jewelled stars, and an old 2D moving picture of Barbara Bancroft. The Manticoran woman imagined being married in a church covered with those symbols, adopting the ideas they embodied as her own, bearing Gary's babies into the ancient traditions and bizarre fears of the Grayson people. Given the deranged example of her parents, would being one member of a threesome threaten her stability, unleash whatever inner demons all the years of therapy hadn't exorcised? Gary was a handsome and very sweet man, and Clarice was possessed of a kind of inner and outer beauty that just begged to be held and cherished, but how would the bizarre assumptions embodied in the Grayson religion shine through those masks? Both of the Harrisons made her feel melty inside, but was there pain on the other side of that warmth?

The moving picture changed, showed Austin Grayson stepping out of the shuttle, planting the flag of his church in the dusty ground, and immediately starting to cough. Grainy, long distance footage of _Troubador_ exploding covered the dome and she thought of her injuries. She'd already given Grayson half her body and the person who had touched her in love for the first time. It would be easy enough to chase the Harrisons out of her apartment, serve out the rest of her time and go home, but imagining a life without Clarice and Gary, even for an instant, was a terribly painful exercise. She closed her eyes and the theatre in her mind put Gary up on the dome, walking away from her pain on that first day because she'd asked him to, and coming back, again because she'd asked him to. She thought of the woman who made orgasmic pictures out of her name-flower. Given prolong, Caraway could expect to outlive her by two hundred years, but that in itself didn't matter. What mattered was that if she asked the Harrisons to leave now, she would have to erase that image from her computer's memory, give up the idea that there could be someone who would play all the games Clarice had described. She drew a deep breath, called the unhealthy air of the dome into her lungs and dared it to do its worst. Grayson could have the rest of her if she could just have these two for the years it took them to grow old.

She turned her chair around. Gary and Clarice were sitting in front of the terminal, looking at an image. Gary had wrapped one arm around his wife, and Clarice's head was resting on his shoulder. Caraway glided into the room, and Gary turned around. "Done with your think?" he asked

"Oh yes." she glided her chair into the room and lowered it almost to the floor in front of the Grayson couple, then leaned forward and laid heself across their knees. She felt their arms enclosing her and she opened her arms in turn, grasping each of them around the waist and pulling them close. "I've decided to be courted."

"We've been talking about that," Gary said, "and we'd like to call the last seven months a courtship. Would you mind very much skipping all that and just marrying us?"

Caraway gazed into Gary's blue eyes for a long moment, then turned her head toward Clarice. Their faces were suffused with love, their eyes clear and bright. She could feel her own eyes brimming over, and as the first tear rolled down her face, she brought her voice under control. "Oh yes."

The three of them basked in the glow of a their love for a few minutes, then Clarice shook herself free of her husband and her intended. "Caraway, I made you something." The Manticoran woman raised her grav chair and looked into the holotank. The previous holograph of the caraway flower had been oddly changed. Clarice had found a picture of the Manticoran woman and had somehow poured the holo of Caraway into the shape of her name flower. The main stem had been thickened just enough to accommodate a stretched out version of her face, and the bright green dreadlocks that rose from her head formed the subsidiary stems. Clarice had obviously found the image files from Caraway's camera, because each purple and white petal of the tiny blossoms had somehow been embossed with a tiny Caraway, Gary, or Clarice, some smiling, some staring outward seriously. The head of the flower was surrounded with tiny crosses and stars.

"That's Clarice's vision of you," Gary said, "and the way you connect with us. I know it's getting late, but Clarice and I - we'd like to load it into your chip."

Despite wanting to play like this for so long, Caraway was suddenly weak with terror. Gary's arm was still around her, and she clutched at his hand. Warmth and reassurance flooded into her. "How will it feel?" she asked nervously.

"Good." the Grayson woman said, "Very good, in fact."

Caraway stared into Clarice's eyes. The Grayson woman was biting her lip nervously. "Do it," Caraway said. Clarice smiled and pressed the button.

Clarice put her arms around both of them and they clung together for a long moment, then the Grayson couple began kissing her face. Gary's lips touched her cheek, her nose, her right eyebrow. Clarice kissed Caraway's eyes, her forehead, her left ear. The Manticoran woman ran eager fingers through her fiances' hair, caressed the backs of their necks. When her whole face had been thoroughly and completely kissed, Clarice and Gary brought their lips up against her's and as the three sets of lips touched, Caraway's world suddenly exploded into a shuddery, spiky spasm of uncontrollable bliss that gently contracted and finally died away into a mass of frozen shivers. When she came back to herself, Caraway looked from Gary to Clarice and back again. "Are we married now?" she asked woozily, the endorphins making her a little high, "because when both of you kissed me at once, I think I saw God."

"We can find a preacher later," said Clarice. She reached over to the computer, tapped a few keys, and loaded the Apothecary's Rose into the other woman's chip. As his wife worked the keyboard, Gary tongued Caraway's ear and started working the buttons of her blouse one-handed. "Meanwhile," Clarice went on, why don't you let our husband get you out of that grav-chair and into something more comfortable - like your bed."

Caraway caressed the back of Clarice's neck. "Our bed darling, now and always." It was a magical, wondrous night, everything she'd been dreaming of for months, and much, much more. Much later, lying secure in her husband's arms and gazing through the darkness, in which she could make out the barest outlines of her sister-wife's face, Caraway thought back to the promise Clarice had made so many months before. "...there will be someone to love you someday, someone who recognizes your strength and beauty, someone who wants you so badly that wheelchairs and sensors mean nothing to them."

In the beginning, she had clung to that promise, let it keep her going through the long nights after Michael had taken his love away. Later, the words had become a seed from which wistful fantasies had grown. Tonight, that promise had been fulfilled, and with that thought, Caraway drifted off to sleep in the arms of the man who loved her and the woman who made flowers.

 


End file.
